Little irks me more than people who adopt nationalities to suit whimsy. You know, “oh, my great-grandmother was part French, so, ooh la la!” My grandmother was Belgian, my grandfather was Irish, my mother was raised European in Brasil, and my father was raised Greek in Egypt, and I was raised Mutt in Africa. I don’t have any need to go poaching new countries. I can barely answer to the ones I’ve got. It’s certainly not fair of me to attempt to wear a new culture by marriage. How many countries does one girl need?
But I can’t help it lately – I’ve got a crush on England.
Perhaps this isn’t too surprising. Perhaps, it’s to be expected. I’m trying not to use too many of the British terms for things because I get yelled at by well-meaning friends who think I’m being a snob (actually for the record, I’m attempting to preserve Stuart’s lovely Britishisms so that he doesn’t lose them by being surrounded by American slang).
And I’m not going to turn into one of those people who pretends to know more about Britain than everyone else. I certainly don’t. I wouldn’t know where to put Leeds on a map, I’ve never been to Manchester, I’ve only just learned about the tragic hilarity that is Milton Keynes, and I can’t even tell where one word in Welsh ends and other begins. Can anyone, come to think of it?
But in little fits and spurts, England is seeping into my life. Mostly through tea. Here’s the thing. I thought I knew tea. My mom drinks about two cups every day. Tetley’s, or Twining’s, are the only teas in our house. I’ve dabbled with loose leaf, preferably a nice strong Ceylon Orange Pekoe. I’m even a purist – I don’t consider fruit and green teas to be real tea. If it isn’t black, I don’t drink it. Alright, I don’t take it with milk and no matter how much I assimilate my married culture, I never will. But seriously. I thought I knew tea.
Then we got the Brown Betty. My mother spotted it in a store and, knowing that my old teapot was hopelessly chipped and seeing its English heritage, slipped it under the tree for us. The first thing I did with it was drop the box it was packed in and break the lid. The second thing I did was burst into tears, promptly followed by a careful session with Crazy Glue. The lid is whole again, with a touch more personality than before.
People of England, why didn’t you convince me much earlier that tea brewed in a teapot far exceeds the cup by Imperial miles?! Did you have to wait until I married one of your menfolk to let me in on this? TEA! In a TEAPOT! It’s strong. It’s hot. It can practically defend itself against the Hun, it’s so packed with moral rigidity and quiet strength. It’s, easily, the best goddamned cup of tea I’ve ever had. These days, if you squeeze me hard enough, well-brewed black tea would leak out.
The other thing I’m soaking up lately has been England’s books. Not that I’d been completely in the dark about good English authors, mind. I’ve read your Hardys, your Austens, your Doyles. But marriage has brought me a new angle on old Blighty. Partly thanks to Stuart, I’ve been consuming a less Manor House and Vicar version of English literature. From the tongue-in-cheek hilarity of Terry Pratchett to the smooth snideness of Evelyn Waugh, over to the modern wit and brilliance of Stephen Fry and David Mitchell. And of course, as my crash course for my culture-in-law, Iowa’s favourite Brit – Bill Bryson.
And the films! The Lavender Hill Mob! The Italian Job! OH MY GOD THE BLACKADDERS. We’re even watching House, on Fox, just because it stars the impeccable Hugh Laurie. Stuart’s anxiously waiting to drag me into Red Dwarf, into Dr. Who, and more Ealing comedies. And I’m not protesting.
I think I owe Britain, and England, a thank you card. Not only have those green and pleasant lands brought me a wonderful funny and intelligent husband, who seems to know his way around any subject on God’s green earth (he can make a curry and fly a glider, I mean, COME ON), but I’m getting the lion’s share of one of the greatest cultures in the world.
Plus, a few weeks ago, I was talking about the ownership of Calais and I seriously said “we”. (Although I’ll always pronounce it cal-LEH instead of CAL-lay.)
So rule Britannia and pass the Brown Betty, I guess. And if there’s a culture consumption limit, I suppose I can trade in Belgium.